A/N: Kinda on the fluffy side. And…my daddy
made the best pancakes, he learned how to in the service. I’m assuming they’re still taught that skill in Starfleet.

And please excuse the crack title. This is not
a crackfic. But it's a crack title. I couldn't think of anything else.

Disclaimer: The boys don't belong to me. Not
one bit.

_______________________________________

Every day... it's always the same.

Ten hours spent in bridge duty. They glance over
at each other at their respective posts when the watch ends. Time to go. One follows the other into the turbo lift. Down to
deck 7. Sickbay. The ICU ward.

Every day, it's always the same.

The body, on the biobed, snuggled beneath the
scanner web/coverlet. The eyes are closed in a deceptively peaceful slumber. The telemetry beeps at regular intervals.

Every day, the doctor's here, clad in his short
sleeved, satin sickbay tunic. Arms folded. Of course he's not going anywhere. He informs them: "Still no change. Of course,
I will notify you if there IS any."

Every day there is always a grim nod.

"Can't you do something? Anything? With all our
scientific and medical knowledge on board this ship? In this day and age?" The words are an act of desperation, exasperation.
It's not meant to be insulting and it's not taken as such.

Every day, he talks to the figure in the bed.
Says: "Hello". There's never a response to: "You gonna wake up soon?" It's heartbreaking, the anguish in his voice.

Today, the doctor intervenes: "Captain, you need
some rest. There's bags under your eyes. You look tired. Go to the officer's mess for dinner, then get to bed. That's a medical
order."

"Only the Chief Medical Officer can give me a
direct medical order."

"I am... the... ACTING Chief Medical Officer,
Captain."

"You're right. Sorry."

Every day there is always an exhausted smile
in response and they're always shooed out of sickbay by Dr. Geoffery M'Benga.

For the past three standard Earth weeks, nothing
has changed.

Three standard Earth weeks can feel like an eternity
on the good ship Enterprise.

Tonight they head to the mess, as ordered. They're
quiet in the lift to deck 5 and nobody dares speak to them when they enter the Officer’s Mess, though various crew smile
at them, encouragingly. The whole ship appears to be holding it's collective breath as it has been for an eternity.

With a heavy air they slide their meal cards
into the slots. The small doors open with piping hot, reconstituted, but pleasant smelling food. //"Yeah, Jim, it smells dandy,
but it's fucking recycled."//

//"Reconstituted, Doctor."//

//"Tasteless, more like."//

They sit at a lone table and without a word,
commence picking at their food. (Following the letter of the law--but not the spirit. Just like old times.) It's quiet. Like
it has been for an eternity.

It’s even quieter without HIM slurping
at his coffee and the constant complaining about the slurping of his coffee and the protesting that he can damn well slurp
his coffee if he wants to dammit: //"I'm not out on a Goddamned date, it's fucking 05:30 hours (in the fucking morning) for
Christ’s sake, cut me some slack."//

//"Didn't your mother raise you up with any manners?"//

//"Sho-nough did, coming up in Georgia-- we’re
raised to be gentlemen-- and you be quiet--you be quiet 'bout my mama--"//

Tonight they’d give anything to hear him
slurp his coffee.

The captain sets his fork down. Kicks himself
a hundred times, a thousand times, a million times, a million-million times--

"Jim, it was not your fault."

"It should have been me. Should have been me."

"It was him they chose."

"It should have been me…to spare my crew."

"They wanted him," is relayed quietly.

McCoy had been abducted, tortured to within an
inch of his life. His unconscious body was returned to them hours later. No explanation other than: 'We enjoyed him very much,
thank you.' Those sadistic fucks with their eerie, humorless sneers showing off small, sharpened, blackened teeth, eyes glowing
bright green before disappearing off the viewscreen.

He had been in the sickbay ICU ever since, comatose.
The physical injuries were easily cured. The internal bleeding in the brain, ceased by M‘Benga‘s talented hands.
But somehow he remained trapped in his own mind.

"He simply needs time to recover," is offered
calmly.

The captain smacks his hand on the smooth metal
table. The noise startles a nearby Lieutenant (she pretends to ignore them--but she's listening). "Don't you care? Don't you
have an ounce--a shred of feeling?"

Hands are clasped behind the back. "You must
retire to your quarters."

"I'm sorry. I guess I should try to get some
sleep, before I wind up relieved of my command."

"Very astute. You are not operating at optimum
efficiency."

"You're right, as usual."

"Jim, it was not your fault."

"Yeah," is said faintly.

*

Spock escorts his captain to the man’s
cabin, making certain he goes to bed (whether the man actually will sleep is debatable). He returns to the sickbay carrying
a PADD. M'Benga spots him as he enters, nods from the desk. It is always the same. He gets himself comfortable, (as comfortable
one can be sitting in a chair next to the biobed). He pulls out the PADD from under his arm. "Today, I shall be reading you
chapter 19 of the medical thriller: The Last Surgeon by Michael Palmer." He commences reading, performing different voices
for each character as he had once observed McCoy do. //An adept performance, Doctor.//

//Why, thank you. Now, get naked...//

It would be more logical to simply playback the
official recorded audio version. He prefers to read it in his own voice. Perhaps McCoy would prefer it. He does not know.

The chapter ends and he depresses a button on
the PADD. M'Benga nods at him and stands, yawing, then disappears into his office. As soon as Spock is left alone he reaches
over and touches McCoy on the meld points.

They are standing on a grassy hill. Wearing denim
trousers...//They're called jeans. Jeans, Spock.//

//My apologies, Leonard. We are both wearing
jeans.//

...and suede cowboy boots, a white button up
shirt, the button's undone far enough to show off a taste of hair-- //Taste?// There is a snicker. //Freudian slip, perhaps,
Spock?//

//Forgive me. There is a peek of hair visible
from your shirt.//

//You know you like it.//

//I have no comment on the matter.//

Suddenly, a little girl appears. Leonard clutches
her hand. She is, what Leonard would call, ‘cute as a button‘. Long blond hair. Blue eyes. The nose the same as
her father. (She is her father's daughter.) She is clad in the pinkest dress one could imagine. In her free hand she's holding
onto a teddy bear.

//Look at her-- bless her heart-- she's got a
teddy bear. Just like you did at that age, right Spock?//

//As you will recall me relaying to you some
time ago, Leonard, my 'teddy bear' had six inch fangs.//

//It's still a teddy bear, Spock. Even with fangs.//

//Be that as it may, I am here to bring you home.//

//I AM home, Spock.// Leonard grips the girl's
hand a little tighter. The protective glare is fiercely evident in his bright blue eyes. (As bright as one could imagine.)

//The Enterprise is your home. You are not in
a reality. This is a falsehood, a construct. You are comatose.//

//I don't care. I like it here. I feel good.
Loved. See that house with the lawn and the trees and the porch swing? Look at those leaves falling. They're orange and brown.
I need to rake the leaves. I love to rake the leaves up, then Jump in the piles of them, and then rake them all over again.
It's fall, Spock. My favorite season. I was just about to go inside and make everyone pancakes and then drive little Joanna
here to nursery school. You ever eaten pancakes, Spock?//

//I have not.//

//Oh, I learned how at Starfleet Medical…
mine just melt in your mouth. They smell delicious. All buttery… With molasses.//

//Indeed?//

A smile. //Would you like to try some pancakes?//

//Negative. You must not go into the house.//
He will fall deeper into the coma...

There is a stab of something-- he does not know.
(But Vulcan's should not feel jealously or sadness or despair…or love… in imaginary worlds.) He cannot force McCoy
to change his mind. It is up to him. The man is stubborn as always, even here.

Spock opens his eyes. Sickbay. He pulls his hand
away. It is five minutes before his shift. As much as he wishes to stay here--he is due on the bridge.

*

There is another week, then another before McCoy
finally wakes up. The first day he is aware for only a few moments. He panics, unable (or unwilling) to acknowledge where
he is. He is calmed by Jim and Spock before he drifts off into sleep.

"Asleep. That's better than comatose," Jim says
with relief.

"Indeed."

As the week rolls on, McCoy gradually is up for
longer periods. He cannot speak. He has a temporary loss of vocal function: Dysarthria, he would call it. (The eyes say it
for him.) It is only temporary.

"We only have reconstituted pancakes available
from the sickbay mess dispensers."

"That will have to do. This craving is driving
me nuts."

Spock nods, fetches Nurse Burke, who brings a
tray with a plate of pancakes, a glass of orange juice and a bottle of warmed molasses. McCoy, additionally, has a loss of
physical function in his arms and hands. (It is left over from the coma and only temporary.) Someone will have to feed him.
"If you'll excuse us, Mr. Spock, I'll go ahead and give Dr. McCoy his breakfast," Burke says.

"Unnecessary," he finds himself saying to her.
"I am his partner, the duty, rightfully is mine."

"Partner…?"

She's confused. McCoy is confused. She walks
away, shaking her head, smiling and McCoy snaps: "I thought you said you wanted to keep things a secret?"

Spock sighs. (Perhaps it should not be--not anymore.)
He slowly butters the pancakes, notes McCoy hungrily licking his lips in anticipation. He pours the warmed up molasses over
the top. (the molasses is in fact real--brought from Earth by McCoy). He proceeds to cut the pancakes in an orderly fashion
with a knife and fork.

McCoy watches his every move. "They teach you
that on Vulcan? They got IHOP's over there?"

"Negative. This is simply the most logical, ordered
fashion in which to consume pancakes." He spears a few squares of the pancake, dripping with butter and molasses, holds it
up to the doctor's mouth.

"Oh God, they smell so good," McCoy breathes.

"They are recycled," he explains, (using McCoy's
word as an attempt at humor). "The scent is artificially added."

"Reconstituted, Spock...and way to kill the mood."
Undaunted, the doctor opens his mouth. Spock slides the loaded fork though the lips and onto the tongue. As McCoy takes them
into his mouth, he's savoring them. "God they taste so good." He chews, swallows and opens his mouth again. "More..."

Spock dutifully obliges him with more forkfuls
of butter and molasses covered pancakes. He's amused at the sight of McCoy lusting after each bite and the alert, electric
blue eyes rolling up in ecstasy at each mouthful. If the man had not just woken up from a coma only a few weeks previously,
he would protest these theatrics. "Doctor, you are definitely a sensualist."

"You oughtta know me by now."

"I do."

"The molasses is liquid heaven," McCoy whispers.
"Try it."

Spock unashamedly dips a finger into the leftover
molasses, sucks it from his own finger. The doctor's eyes are lustful, they close partway, then widen as they watch him. "Do
it again," he commands. Spock now dips two fingers, getting them completely covered in the sticky goo, sucks them clean. McCoy
eyes are trained on him, the breathing is increased. McCoy opens his mouth. Spock dips his two fingers again, this time letting
McCoy suck them clean.